Grit
by LittleMissMorbid
Summary: ."They're all liars." Casey drabble.


There is a beginning, and there is an end.

She has learned this entirely too quickly.

She was supposed to excel here, branch out, have the time of her life before succumbing to the mundane life of a workaholic.

She was supposed to fall in love break hearts get drunk and make new best friends.

This is not so.

It's just like high school.

Except the professors aren't as appreciative, the grades are harder to get, and the nights are longer.

She has learned it hurts to breathe.

It's like a snake has curled around her, suffocating her, a constant reminder of what she wants and what she can't have.

She wasn't as aware of her defects until she came here.

Everyone is skinnier, everyone laughs and huddles in groups and _enjoys _getting smashed the day before an exam.

She's not sure what she's more angry at:

That she feels she's wasting her time here, rotting in sadness and sleep deprivation

Or that she really _is _more different than a lot of people, and consequently her gift of observation and age is really a curse.

It's not going to get better.

And that's what kills her the most.

Because this is what was supposed to fix her, this is what was supposed to be her way out.

And here she has no way out, she is stuck and she is lonely and goddammit, it _hurts. _

She is tired of hurting, tired of not sleeping, tired of working and working and having nothing to show for it (story of her goddamn life).

There is no one to pick her up (there is no one like this for anyone, despite what countless lifetime romcoms seem to tell her).

She hates idealists because they can shove reality aside and live in the moment; she hates people who tell her she is wrong and she needs to wait because that's all she's really been doing—waiting and simply _surviving. _

She's tired of just surviving.

She wants to be a writer, but no one wants to read the stories of gritty realism doused in the temporary emotion-numbing effects of nicotine and painkillers.

She wants to love, but nobody wants to deal with the countless walls she has subconsciously put up, the odd stalker-like, sociopathic tendencies.

She has heard that true artists thrive in the melancholy she is in; if it is so, she'd rather be happy and work in construction.

Art is no sacrifice for happiness.

And what about the secret things she dips in; the false tales of forbidden, risqué love, the false tales of justice and perfection?

Perhaps that is what makes reality so much more damning?

Her mother asks what is wrong.

She can't tell her dear mother anything anymore, because the woman only judges her or tells her how to fix it (but there is no fixing mommy dearest, can't you see? I am broken and have no way to pick up the pieces!)

Cynicism and biting retorts are amusing to the correct sort of folk, but perhaps they are broken people too, because they never stay for long.

She _knows _she is smart, perhaps too smart sometimes.

And she _knows _she is observant.

And she _knows _she is so very old.

And yet when she tries to explain these things to others they interpret it as arrogance.

And her head is screaming _no, no, can't you see! I'm reaching out and trying to explain and you're _dismissing _it, just what the hell is wrong with you, you fucking dolt!_

So think what you want about her and her unkempt appearance, think what you want about her biting words and nicotine habit, think what you want about her constantly failing relationships and her odd little personality (that borders on _insane_) but when you find her sprawled at the foot of some twelve-story building with an odd little smile on her face (_finally_) _don't _call her one of those martyrs that just needed to ask for help.

Because she always did (_look at her eyes, look at her eyes look how empty_), you were too stupid to see it.

(And when someone finally comes forward and cries at her funeral, saying how [s]he wished [s]he could turn back time and love her, shout _liar! _Because they're all liars, every single one of them)

o-o-o-o-o-o

I do imagine Casey going through something quite similar during her freshman year at uni.

But god, I really can't wait till this year is over.


End file.
